


The Volkovitch Job

by helena_s_renn



Category: Dark Angel
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Kiss, First Time, Flashbacks, Masturbation, Multi, Pre-Series, Undercover Missions, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-08 07:48:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1932660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helena_s_renn/pseuds/helena_s_renn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At Manticore, the X5s are dropping at a rate of one to two a day. Renfro chooses 494 and 511  infiltrate the lab at another transgenic breeding site in Kezmekhistan and steal the life-saving antidote. Their contact is the double agent Lola.</p>
<p>It's 494's first mission.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> <em>  No, first thing we ever did together was the Volkovitch job, over in Kezmekistan or wherever... Oh, yeah, that's right. Ooh, the off-hours were definitely the highlight of that mission... Lola. </em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladyarcherfan3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyarcherfan3/gifts).



> X5-494 (otherwise known as Alec McDowell) is called Alexei in parts of this story  
> X5-511 (otherwise known as Biggs) called Kirill in parts of this story  
> ...prior to them picking the names "Alec" and "Biggs"... also they're undercover.  
> Artwok and inspiration: ladyarcherfan3  
> Beta: ChristianHowe  
> Word count: ~10K for all (prologue, 3 chapters, epilogue)  
> Warnings: Time jumps back and forward. Repeat: not linear.  
> Disclaimers: DA characters and 'verse belongs to Cameron et al. I own nothing.  
> A/N: transgenics are sometimes referred to and/or call themselves "trannies". They did so in the TV series. This has nothing to do with transgender or transsexual. No insult is intended.  
> A/N2: besides DA transcriptions and fanfic, I could find no reference of Kezmekhistan. For the purposes of this story, it's a small [fictional] country between Russia, Kazakhstan, and the Caspian Sea. People there speak Russian and Kazakh, with a mix of cultures. City names are fictitious.

Prologue

Wyoming, USA, 2016

Transgenics. Manufactured part-humans. Made in secret in native soil for the defense of a country that unapologetically outsourced everything from agriculture to customer service. They possessed intelligence well above average, superior deductive reasoning, eidetic memories. Physically, thanks to the lab-engineered traits, they displayed greater strength, speed, coordination and endurance. Transgenic children matured faster than their human counterparts. In the all models, acceleration was deliberate; what varied was the pace that they developed. Earlier failures had proved to the Manticore brass that splicing animal DNA was a delicate process. Of the first generation, there had been only two, the First and one more to prove it wasn't a fluke. The X2's, not animal, certainly not human, but workable, serviceable, creatures that people would mistake for mermaids and catwomen and centaurs. Then came all of the aberrations; monsters in the basement were the rotten fruit no one even bothered to call X3's. Some of those 'Nomolies had gone from infant to adult in three or four years, something a human mind could never assimilate, never mind the mutations which could never be let loose in the world beyond use as bait to train later strains. 

With the near-success of the X4 generation, Manticore let out a collective breath and refocused their planning and foresight on the next. Their advantages: human appearance and movements, speech capacity, with the hyper-athleticism all transgenics possessed. Not as good: While intelligent, their imagination was nearly nil, and in emotional capacity they were stunted, but the small batch of only about 200 prototypes had been enough to secure funding for a new strain. The results would be phenomenal: thousands of children, the X5's, all tucked away at a secret former military base far up in the Wyoming Rockies. The X5's, besides passing as human, had the distinct advantage of the approximation of physical childhood, not that their training allowed for one in any other manner. Smaller bodies meant less food and other resources, easier to control. 

Friendships, alliances, and rivalries formed and reformed in the ranks. The batch had been large: no 'Nomolies detected in initial screening, and they'd lost very few in utero or in childbirth. The decision to shuffle the units so that none were together more than a few months before the next re-org had been made early on, around the time the then-toddlers progressed from one-word sentences to multi-lingual fluency. Only the twins were handled any differently, an experiment within an experiment. No twin ever met his or her twin, which were referred to as clones in typical dehumanizing manner, or even knew of them during childhood and adolescence.

Extended - for transgenics - childhood or no, their creators still produced fully functional adult-seeming humanoids available for work or breeding in just two-thirds of the years needed in standard homo sapiens. Once all primary growth patterns were complete, the aging process slowed to a crawl. Thus, the nine-year-old Oh-Niners had been pubescent, and those beginning training to infiltrate the outside world passed as legal to drink even without fake ID's when they reached fifteen or sixteen years. In another century, they'd appear perhaps a decade older than that - or so the scientists who dreamed up their DNA codes had theorized. Manticore's genetic programmers had given some passing thought to the possibility of elderly transgenics living out the few last decades of their estimated two or even three hundred years in suspended slow-motion decline. Even - or especially - on the outside, no one really expected them to survive their violent reckless throw-away lives. 

To that end, as a precaution, an expiration date had been devised. If they managed to live long enough to see it, there'd be no such thing as the menopausal "change of life" for females, only death. The world had seen it as such since the beginning of time already. For the males, a certain combination of bone density, sperm count, BMI, and frontal lobe shrinkage would set off the built-in termination sequence. Manticore expected it would be a good century before that ever happened - if any made it that long. Doubtful.

The first spontaneous deconstruction was written off as coincidence. The X5s' susceptibility to seizures had dogged them since they could walk. So when a 16-year-old male went down in the sparring ring, shaking violently and choking on blood, he was quickly shunted by guards to the infirmary. Every transgenic remembered former unit members who had been hauled through those doors, never to be seen again. They were never spoken of. The others around the ring had learned at the business ends of electric cattle prods to look away. Among them, X5-494 stood in the classic at-ease stance. He knew to keep his eyes front and his expression neutral.

Then it happened again. And again.


	2. Chapter 2

Part 1 

 

Wyoming, USA, 2001 - 494 and 511

494's earliest memory was of lying in his crib watching the moving pictures with sound vocal accompaniment projected on the ceiling. Some were happy with bright colors and silly music; some scared him with loud noises and stern droning voices, so he pulled his blanket over his head. They never stopped. A few times a day, he was given a bottle by a huge person with a long braid. After a time, his infant curiosity ade him look through the slats of his crib into the face of another little tiny person his size with big brown eyes and only two teeth. "Hewwo!" He baby-talked his first word, then grew clearer. "Bonjour, ¡Hola! Guten Tag, Shalom...? Who's gonna change my butt 'round here?"   
494 blinked in surprise as the other baby crawled over the railing. He'd found his first friend.

 

Wyoming, USA, 2003-2009 - 494

Friendships weren't encouraged past the age of three. With several thousand siblings, it was all one huge rivalry from day one. Unlike some animal litters, runts and weaklings were not tolerated, and culled early. X5-494 blended in by excelling in stealth maneuvers and when he was older, transport training and staying out of the worst fisticuffs, but only to a point. Never, ever be best or worst. He tended to be the comic relief - out of hearing. Trusting no one, he could only hope for a chance to get the fuck out of Manticore, maybe to the West Coast, maybe South America, places they'd all studied. The gray locked-down conformity of the place would eat him alive someday if he didn't. By the time the fabled unit escaped, he knew that much.

 

Wyoming, USA, 2011 - 511

The North American transgenics bred in back-country Wyoming, 'where the men are men and the sheep are nervous', as the old saying went, were a mixed-race batch. Some, like 494 and the Oh-Niner leader 599 were almost entirely Anglo, but many came from Latino, Asian, and African mixes. Manticore tested them all for durability. As protocol, 511's own history and statistics where not revealed to him. A happy-go-lucky sort, he never much cared if he was Mexican, Chechen, Syrian, or Hawaiian or some of each. Whenever the brass played fruit-basket-upset with the units, 511 found a best buddy and they stuck together, but not too close or one would be moved to another company. Usually he bonded with another boy, but not always. One of those 'not always'-es gave him his first kiss. They were ten, eleven so it was mostly innocent. Not long after, the girls were removed from the ranks. 511 found out by the expedient of blacked eyes and a bloody nose that most boys weren't amenable to romantic gestures. He wondered when the girls would come back. 

 

Wyoming, USA, summer 2018 - Renfro and 494

Elizabeth Renfro - who went by surname only - and her directs carefully screened those who had reached the critical level of maturity before sending them out into the world, always undercover and armed to the teeth. To prevent all-out hedonism, they injected all transgenics with a blend of hormone suppressants that killed their mating urge while allowing their bodies' natural and artificial chemicals to render them adult strength, already supplemented by their gene-splice cocktail. Originally, the children were housed in mixed units, to promote the idea of gender equality. After the first unplanned pregnancies, girls and boys were divided into separate barracks. Special ops needed to be dedicated, obedient, the best, not animals regardless of whatever might be lurking in their DNA strands. That worked to a point. The world being what it was, broken and long past the put-on morals of pre-pulse society, penetration into human sectors very often required the lubrication of seduction to go down without a hitch, as it were. No available resource could be spared, on the way to successful missions. Not one person from the custodians to the laboratory analysts to the latest director herself labored under any illusion of what would happen if there was ever the slightest chink in the iron wall of control.

494 had caught Renfro's eye when rumors went around that he was the man to talk to, to obtain certain types of contraband. Little things. Super-pack vitamins, cigarettes and lighters, condoms and lube, candy. The guards traded with him both for the black-market items in his ever-revolving inventory and for the fun of thumbing their noses at the establishment. 494, stealthy and watchful by nature, became con artist and thief by opportunity. His DNA cocktail mixer was not common house cat but Panthera tigris altaica. Per his records, this soldier would be gifted in speed and cunning, but be able to function with equal effectiveness in solitary, paired, or group situations. That had yet to be proven. His superior reported that he was a capable soldier, imaginative in his escapes. Besides the fact that he was hotter than hell - all transgenics that passed as humans were, in some manner - unmistakably male but with large, heavily-lashed eyes and an over-lush mouth that Renfro would have said they broke the mold after - except she knew better - he knew how to use that thing. The kid was a smooth talker who fielded her up close and personal brand of interrogation without even breaking a sweat.

As long-time head of genetics and now de facto director of Manticore since Lydecker's elopement, Renfro personally oversaw the selection process and training from a distance. For the few extra-special X5's who garnered her personal attention, it was still mostly remote. Observation and handing down revised orders as needed was more her way. A dozen guinea pigs were put into solitary cells one night. Like all of his generation, 494 blurred when he moved at top speed. Only the several-inch-thick iron walls, armed security and the threat of Psy Ops prevented his escape by brute force once he caught on that he'd been singled out for something.

Just to be sure he was ready, Renfro ordered a week with his nights spent in isolation while he came off the suppressants. During the days the group was fast-tracked in language, culture, geography, scientific theory and practical technique in preparation for upcoming missions. 

Because she wanted her soldiers back in one piece whenever possible, Renfro always paired an experienced operative with a first-timer. For the senior member of the two-man team, she tentatively chose 511. She'd been correct - 494 found the most affinity for 511 among the seasoned ops. After four successful missions into west-central Asia, 511's proficiency had been proven, and his confidence showed. He fit in with the type native of the region, shorter in stature with olive skin, glossy black hair, dark eyes. 494 would have to learn to blend in, in other ways, or carve a path of his own.

And, on the other end of the mission, there needed to be a contact. Insider. Mole. Traitor. S-1009D, one of the Volkovitch line, these days known as Lola Zharova would do. That far inland, Renfro couldn't be too choosy. The X-series were dropping at a rate of one or two a day, and the older ones with larger serial numbers tended to go first. She needed her agents to close with someone who'd been out amongst the people for years. Together they'd need to liberate a sample of the antidote and get it back to the States. Lola, a stereotypical female Nordic-Tranny who was pushing 40 but looked late-teens, with killer combat skills coupled with a strong do-gooder, mother instinct should confound the hell out of 494, along the way. She'd be well-paid, IF she could find an in for the X5's at the Volkovitch lab. As far as Renfro was concerned, payment in kind was a good enough bonus.

494's first time stroking himself to completion under a private shower became part of Renfro's special collection. Panting and trembling, the naked transgenic held up his spunk-coated palm in wonder and some measure of fear, his other hand cupping the swollen testicles that had just discharged a built-up, gelatinous mix of semen and serum. It was a shame they couldn't even allow the youths nocturnal emissions, beyond the initial one that alerted staff of puberty. Necessary, though, or the boys would spend all their free time in their racks and the girls, mostly frustrated as hell. Renfro always liked to witness the reawakening. 494 looked so damned surprised, first at his hardened pink member jutting out like a startled exclamation point then at the sticky culmination, it was almost comical. Nose wrinkling, he sniffed, licked, then quickly washed away the evidence. Ten minutes later, he was back at it like a pro.

Renfro had seen that look on his face before: It was a good day to be young and transgenic.

 

...

"494, you've been selected for mission 2018K14-9."

"Yes, ma'am! Thank you, ma'am!"

"We're happy with your skills, and the fast-track studies you've absorbed. Do you know the nature of this mission?"  
Renfro stood just behind 494 and to his right, mouth near his ear. They had canceled his weekly haircut for the last three weeks, and the fine, golden-brown scruff at the back of his neck was just starting to curl.

"No, Ma'am!" 

"Good, good. Means no one's been talking out of turn. No leaks." Renfro began to walk slowing around and around 494, which he forced himself to ignore. "This is strictly black ops, meaning you will tell no one, and be undercover for the duration. You and your partner X5-511 will be flown by stealth aircraft into airspace on the Russia-Kezmekhistan border where you will deploy by parachute, which you'll train for tomorrow, and from then will go overland on foot into Kezmekhistan. Manticore is not the only facility of its kind in the world, were you aware of that, 494?" 

The astonished look on the young soldier's face answered for him, but he remembered, "No, Ma'am." 

"It's true. Such facilities exist on nearly every continent, with varying degrees of success. The transgenics created in the former Soviet Bloc, however, are superior to your kind," Renfro allowed a tone of slight censure into her words, as if it were personally 494's fault. "They have several labs, and tried many techniques, for longer, and were able to optimize their results. The X5's have a critical flaw, for all that your line is very effective, when this recent problem of spontaneous expiration can be overcome. Perhaps you've noticed lately that there have been casualties?"

494 considering not answering; they weren't supposed to acknowledge or notice when it happened. In the end, he replied affirmatively. 

Renfro looked him in the eye. In her six-inch spike heels, she was nearly his height, with ice-blue irises and lizard-like thin lips. 494 had never inspected her physical appearance up close before. With the bleach-blond spiked hair and rail-thin body type, she reminded him of a knife. She was only human. Any transgenic could snap her neck in a heartbeat, but she was utterly unafraid. "Yes, you're not stupid, of course you have. Their agency is called Volkovitch, after its founder. Egotistical, no? The son runs it now. Within their facility, they have a medical lab not much different from ours. Somewhere inside their preservation vaults, there's a cure, an antidote, dosages enough to inject every life-worth transgenic here, so that you will not die. All we need is one; we can replicate it here. Without going into specifics, this antidote reprograms faulty... termination sequences. Assuming you're not killed on a mission or in combat, you'll all live decades."

"You will infiltrate the facility. Once you find this cure, it will be your job to secure it on your person, signal your transport which will be waiting in a neutral country, and make yourselves available for rendezvous. We will provide maps of the terrain, the city, and the compound. Are we clear so far?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Now I know it's your first time," Renfro's voice went temporarily lascivious, "but 511 will help you with how to interact with the locals. Watch and learn. You'll also have a contact there, a female transgenic who goes by the name Lola." 

The fine, perfectly arched eyebrows rose. 

"Yes, 494?"

"A name? A transgenic with a name? But..."

"You'll get a dossier on her. She's older than you, experienced, but she looks young. We suspect she's a double agent, so be wary and win her over by whatever means necessary, but she is amenable to assisting our cause. And yes, you'll be choosing a pseudonym and a cover story before you deploy. Any questions?" 

494 hesitated so long that Renfro prepared to rebuke him for mild insubordination. But then he burst out, "Ma'am, do I have gossamer in my genetics?" 

Renfro burst out laughing. It was an honest mistake, she supposed. The X4's, X5's and beyond were educated completely on their body parts and functions, save one. "Oh, you mean because of the... goo? Not at all. All fully mature male mammals do that. The stuff that comes out of you won't paralyze anything. But don't forget this: just as Manticore gave you life, we can take it. We have now given you back your..." the glacier-chip eyes darted downwards, then back up, "fertility and with it, your capacity for pleasure, and we can take that away again as well." 

494 filed that away for future reference. Somehow, it didn't surprise him at all. Not that something had been withheld, nor the threat of its negation. That, he supposed, was a key to the continued obedience, once they were let out in the world. He wondered how the Oh-Niners fared when it hit them, and if after the first ten thousand times they got bored with... that.. "Yes, ma'am!" 

 

Tiksi, Siberia, Russian Federation to Kezmekhistan, 1999-2008 - Lola

Lola, or Lolya to her few friends, hatched at Volkovitch's Tiksi Genetic Research Foundation's underground cryopreservation and enhancement facility near the end of the Cold War. Declining population of the city despite the now-open Northern Sea Route for two months of the year forced leadership to move their fully-trained operatives far afield. The Siberian transgenics were noticeably self-assured with an air of deadly black-and-white justice, which did not sit well with the locals in the remote 5000-person industrial and fishing center. They were just too strange and noticeable. And where had all these motherless children come from? Some supposed it was nothing more than an orphanage, that strange group of buildings. Some had other ideas, and muttered about the devils at the end of the world.

Being kept indoors much of the time, the created humans were pale and youthful but grew up noticeably faster than other children. Their vocabularies were too broad. They knew too many languages, more than just the official Russian and the local patois. They were drilled constantly, rigorous PR exercises, long-distance running, marksmanship in a vast bunker far underground, mnemonics, and what their instructors termed their studies. Any potential operative that consistently fell behind was removed from the group, but they all knew why: to be kept in cold storage for recyclable parts. 

Perhaps in self-defense, Lola and the others, long before they hit their teens, learned to hoard alcohol they stole in town, and how to gamble cards and dice to while away the long, long nights. Unlike their American counterparts - yes, they knew all about them - no one forced them to sleep. There were fewer of the Russian-made transgenics, but thanks to less cloning and more hands-on, one-on-one training, they were considered far superior. The children were pushed hard with the threat of their lives hung over their heads, but they were also shown affection, given encouragement.

Ten-year-old Lola, upon learning of how things were handled in America, swallowed back her gorge. Undercover spies returned with footage of the facility that had recently produced several thousand transgenics, all incubated by human mothers who were disposed of after birthing their implanted embryos. How could they never hug and kiss those babies? Her long, blond usually-braided hair showed her individuality, as did her clothes in off hours. The... specimens... at Manticore were housed in rows upon rows of identical cribs and bunks, dressed identically in clothing fit for a mental ward, and their heads were shaved, boys and girls. Even worse, the bar codes on the back of their necks labeled them as merchandise, not people. If she ever met one, Lola decided, she would teach them better, poor things. Already, her subversive opinion was that lab-made humans possessed the same life and soul as those who were born.

One sun-dog winter day, four years later, a squad of four grim and unsmiling senior agents shuttled Lola, along with five of her age-mates, out aboard a ship to Murmansk where they were briefed and trained for their deep cover stints, then flown to Kiev. From there, they were field-tested off the northern overland route into Kazakhstan, through hostile territory down into Kezmekhistan. Five of the six made it alive. The ranking officer dropped her off on the main street of the mountainside city Olata with her pack of clothes and personal effects, bedroll, nondescript scarf to cover her bright hair, a not-exactly-enviable roll of low-denomination bills, and a pager. Her own Sig Sauer .38 was tucked into the back of her waistband, and she had stashed knives in four places on her person.

Volkovitch had an 'office' there, the administrative headquarters, and a genetics laboratory under construction in an old factory building on the edge of town. The others of her 'litter', she wouldn't see again except during twice-yearly mandatory training for many years, long after the Pulse and the later breakdown of the hierarchy which had obliged her to work for the government that had created her. Her handlers insinuated that if times got rough, she might have to sell her body for money. Lola, like all of her kind, could go for a long time without food and water; she vowed she would starve or freeze before that.

Like many natural humans in her age group, she worked long hours just to feed herself. At first, she had lived in the alley behind a restaurant on a side street, where she constructed a lean-to of sorts and survived off thrown-away leftovers. The wife of the owner tried to shoo her away, but the daughter adopted her as best she could. Lola's first job was sweeping and scrubbing the floors at night for a few tenge, the local monetary unit, a meal, and a chance to wash up. During those months, no one from Volkovitch approached her. Sink or swim time. 

For her own personal safety, Lola adopted the dress style of women in the area. As often as she could manage, she ran up into the hills and practiced her marksmanship and knife-work in a secluded valley. Someone, she never knew who, always left two boxes of shells in the hollow of a certain native pine. 

It was summer, and many people lived on the streets. During the day, she learned to always keep moving - store owners and restaurateurs, even all but the skuzziest coffee shops and bars, would run the likes of her in her dirty, ratty clothes off the premises. Through observation, Lola found where she could relieve herself in some degree of privacy, which of the homeless men to avoid. 

Sad but true, some of the street people had mental problems. Most were harmless but not all. She was jumped twice - for money - before she learned to keep it down her underwear. Anyone who got in there, and no one had yet, weren't going to be asking her for pay. Not daring to fire a handgun in town, Lola bathed her knives in blood, and quickly earned a reputation of being someone not to mess with.

The housing market was tight; vacancies were rare, and required a hefty bribe to gain access. Most of the young people panhandling and doing odd jobs like Lola herself were willing to pile a dozen bodies into a single room in one of the poorly insulated cement tenements, if it meant being out of the elements. Organization and trust was another matter. She became friends in the haphazard but fast manner of youth and necessity with Jelena and Sergei, Aisha and Diaz and Sanjar. Between them, they brought two mattresses, a few blankets, a chest of drawers missing one drawer, a dented teakettle and a pot, and enough mismatched dishes for each person to claim their own. They ate potatoes, so many potatoes. Traditional black bread. Onion soup, and if they were lucky, a little fish and rice.

Later in her life, Lola would remember those early days and the next few years as happy ones. Once construction was completed, she was selected for two days a week at the Kezmekhistan Center for Genetics and Development, where she became a caretaker amongst the next generation in that backwards, god-forsaken place. Supposed to be part of her training, she actually, ironically, enjoyed it. The supervisors only let her work in the childcare center two days a week, so 'she wouldn't get too attached'. The twenty babies she, along with three toothless grannies and a one-eyed teenaged girl, took care of in twelve hour shifts grew on her and became like the children she'd never have.  
Her friends introduced her to club life. She supposed that the heavy thump-thump of the music drew her, the glitter and excitement of it. Alcohol was nothing new - the problem with it was that transgenics had to drink a ridiculous amount to get anything approaching drunk. Lola found her niche, dancing. Not to pick up, not to show off. She was more than aware of the stigma of being seen as a loose woman, not to mention the cliché of it. So many girls told themselves they were only dancing, not hooking, only to find themselves in the opposite position sooner or later. For her, the adrenaline rush provided a good buzz, maybe not the same as a couple liters of vodka, but without the hangover. It didn't start out as a job, just a way to relax. Lolya would be lying if she denied the sensual side of it, though. Something about the way the beat of the music fused with the musculature of her hips and spine, the twisting, grinding pulse, made her forget being a stranger amongst strangers in a strange land.

Not coincidentally, she was spotted by disco owners in the red-light district. The town boasted only two legit such clubs; more could be found underground. Besides her youthful, unjaded Nordic cast, exotic for the area, they noticed she could dance for hours without tiring and never forgot a step. What was more, she lost herself in it and played no favorites with the clientele. 

Lola gave them two nights per week, always with a day lapse between her childcare days. Between the two, the money was good enough for her to get her own place, but she hesitated. The camaraderie of her friends, their late nights of carousing and drinking, the casual sex between them - caring but not love, was hard to give up. As years passed, the others paired up or moved on, other kids came and went. Mikhail, Sveta, Misha, Annika, Pavel and so many more... That lifestyle was good for a long while, but Lola lived with the cloud that it was temporary - and not in the way it was for the others - hanging over her head.

She hoarded her money and waited.


	3. Chapter 3

Kezmekhistan-Russia border, 2018 - Alexei and Kirill

Alexei and Kirill - those were the names they chose. 494 was Alexei, a good, traditional Russian name. 511 became Kirill. He liked the sound of it, said it sounded like an assassin's name. Alexei, as he already had started to think of himself, only smiled about that as they completed a test drop from 12,000 feet. In thirty-six hours, they would be on the other side of the world, humping their way over mountainous terrain into a metropolitan area. Alexei had never been out of Manticore and the surrounding foothills and mountains. He'd seen all the required educational films so he was prepared for what it would look like, but it would all be new. He'd been warned more than once to keep his eyes to himself and not gawk, and his mouth shut. 

The two operatives deployed over a mountain range and landed in near darkness without any major incident. Alexei sprained an ankle, but it was fine again within an hour. After repacking their 'chutes and shouldering their packs, they set out at a lope. A couple of hours later, the sky lightened and then the sun rose screaming red-orange in a halo of pink over the mountains. Alexei didn't say it, but he reflected that this was the first day of his life he was free.

They ran-walked-ran on foot all day. The ground-eating pace and terrain similar to what they'd grown up with presented little obstacle. An unexpected storm hit that night; it wouldn't last, it was too early in autumn, but the temperature in the mountainous territory dropped below freezing. Transgenic stamina notwithstanding, they needed rest. The cold wouldn't kill them, but two warm bodies in a sleeping bag beat limbs going stiff from inactivity, separately. In their small alpine tent, after they'd discussed the mission at length, Alexei found the courage to ask 511, no, Kirill, if it happened to him, too, in perfect Kazakh since they'd been ordered to speak the local languages once over the border.

"Yes, of course. Someone explained it to you, right?" Kirill asked, catching on immediately and not unsympathetic. His first mission had been his awakening, too.

Alexei couldn't suppress a shudder, not from cold. "Renfro. She told me it was normal." His tone expressed mild disbelief.

Kirill confirmed, "Oh, it's very normal. After this, they'll keep you away from all the others who haven't been on an away mission. Can't really take it away, once you've felt it." 

This was the opposite of what the director had threatened. "She said they can." 

"They can try. Your body will remember. Especially after you find out what it's like with another person." Even in the dark, the nudge-nudge-wink-wink innuendo came through Kirill's announcement.

"What?! Really?" 

"Really. All kinds of better than alone." 

"Show me." 

Kirill chuckled. "It's a good sign you don't resent it, some do. But you should know a few things." Fingers touched his lips briefly and he smiled. "Pay attention, it's important. First, where we're going, you can't touch in public."

"I wouldn't...!" 

"Not even if you manage to get drunk. It's illegal, especially with another man. That'll get you killed. So don't even try that in the place we're going to; stick with girls."

"The hell...!" Alexei spit out one of the mild profanities they'd learned. His mind was spinning. With girls? With men??

"Missions tend to have you needing to fuck someone old or fat but either richer than god, or with some kind of intel or product you can't get any other way."

494 thought about that. Fucking. The word itself sounded awful, and if the other party were ugly... Almost everyone he'd ever met was young and in top physical condition. Their human guards and other Manticore personnel... well, some weren't exactly attractive, and therefore 494 didn't really 'see' them. But right now he could see Kirill just fine, even in the dark. "Have you had to?" 

"Well, yes. On the bright side, though, out here, they can't stop us from finding people we like to... be with. The term is 'hooking up'." He gave the Kazakh wording, then Russian, then English. 

"I think... I want to do that, too."

Part of Kirill's job, though not formally, was to find appropriate partners for first-time ops to get their dicks wet with, so to speak. Alec was the fifth he'd been the senior partner for, but the first who'd showed that sort of interest with him. Just to be sure, he questioned, "Are you sure, Alexei? That you want that with me. We'll have to work together; you can't let it distract you."

Green eyes practically glowed in the dark, inches from his face, coming closer. "I've seen the same films you have. We're supposed to kiss, right?"

"If you wan- Mmmph!" Apparently Alexsei did want, and he wanted it now. Kirill wasn't immune to the other male's looks and bearing, all cocky swagger. It might put some off but it was more than fine for him. A tight body rubbed up against his, and a more than adequate erection pressed into his hip as they kissed. Their tongues met, swiped, curled meeting taste for taste.

Kirill took the upper hand. Alexei would probably cum in his standard-issue skivvies without intervention any minute. "Hey, not yet. We're not going to walk into town covered in your no doubt tasty cream."

"Wha-?" Alexei gasped at every new sensation: a tongue licking down his neck, teeth pulling at his taut nipples, the lips and heat, wet, suction on his curved, uncut length, a hand rolling his balls. "Please, hurts, feels so good, I'm gonna... oh god..." he lapsed into English.

"Ssh!" Kirill figured shushing him would be next to impossible so he applied powerful suction and was rewarded only seconds later with several hard spurts. 

Transgenic powers of recovery were excellent. And, he was beginning to learn, one transgenic in particular didn't often shut his sarcastic mouth. "What about you?" Alexei asked, only slightly breathless.

Kirill wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and crawled back up so they were level. "You've been trading condoms and lube for years. Now's when you learn how to use them. Turn over."

 

Kezmekhistan, 2015-2017 - Lola

One fateful night, after her shift at The Odessa Room, Lola arrived home to nothing but the acrid stench of fire and blackened shell. For the first time since her arrival, her pager beeped. From then on, it was one mission after another. First, she was sent to the various facilities to evaluate the potential of the children created at each. She observed, interacted with their groups. Sometimes she was allowed to give the ones that needed a little help her full attention. It was beyond her what more they wanted her for. 

And then she found out. Already familiar with the fact there were similar programs globally, she had not understood until Volkovitch Kezmekhistan was forcibly invaded. Sirens blared for twenty minutes while she alternately guarded the door and tried to quiet the children in her charge. Heavy bootfalls approached at a run. The ops who kicked in the door spoke a certain form of Spanish, had a certain reddish tint to their swarthy completions; Lola indentified them as part of the Yucatan Cooperative. She snatched the hidden AK-47 from behind the toy box and dispatched the six bristling soldiers. 

During the subsequent debriefing, she was given the opportunity to become a full-time guard there on the grounds. Volkovitch expected more and better such attacks. There had been problems in other countries, with their transgenic populations meeting sticky ends. Additionally, they had the only known preventative on the premises, and the others would take it by any means necessary.

"But why don't we share? Or sell it?"

The answer she got was not at all satisfactory: "That's not the way of the world, little girl. You don't understand power. They know we have what they need. We'll simply wait for them to self-destruct. And in the meantime, be ready, and well-armed."

....

No matter how she tried to spin it, Lola couldn't agree with the philosophy of her creators and employers. First though, more pressing matters, like a place to live. Despite having money of her own stashed at the club, she'd lost the bulk of it in the fire. She also stepped up her own training regimen. Whatever followed, she would be ready.

As if the Fates could see her determination to thwart the system, specifically to give others similar to herself a fighting chance, a strange number appeared on her pager one random day. Thirteen digits, an easy sequence for any transgenic memory, could be phone or fax. Lola considered ignoring it, even erased it, but not before she'd memorized it. There was only one payphone she knew of in the city that was not monitored by whoever watched her. On edge, she waited nearly a week for the familiar sixth-sense flash of being under someone's microscope. Later the same day, after the creepy presence and come and gone and she felt safe that nobody was watching her, she proceeded to the old-fashioned phone booth next to the second-largest onion-domed cathedral, and called the number.

That was the first time she spoke to Elizabeth Renfro, but hardly the last. The woman was the female version of a slimeball. Lola hated her on principle. Hated her dedication to experimentation and mutation. Hated being talked down to like she was a five-year-old and not a very bright one at that. However, she did pick up some useful American English slang terms. Yet she clamored for the chance to meet foreign transgenics, work with them to pull out the underpinnings of the establishment that created them. 

Another day shortly thereafter, she was sitting on a park bench, eating her lunch, a sardine sandwich. A short, slight dark-haired woman walked by with four children in tow. Two blond girls, which was unusual enough. A small boy, dark-haired, maybe four years old. The woman also carried a baby, maybe a year old. They were clearly street people, as the girls were laden with packs with kitchen utensils tied to the outsides, and the woman had a roll of blankets on her back. Immediately, Lola was struck by the compassion some of the other dancers called her downfall and Volkovitch could never learn of. She reconned the family on her off days; they came through the street often as there was a public fountain where they could drink and wash the little ones. 

Not sure how to begin, Lola struck up a conversation. The woman's name was Dariya, and she was a dressmaker by profession. Currently she worked when she could at the fabrics mill as a pattern cutter, but only when she was needed for fill-in. Jobs were hard to come by, and people didn't ditch those they had. Dariya was able to work maybe two days out of five, for all that she had to sit at the factory for hours in the early morning to line up for a chance.   
It took several weeks to earn her trust; Lola learned Dariya had been married to a Russian who'd been enlisted in the national army and killed in Afghanistan. She nearly lost her flat when their savings ran out, and had been forced for some years to become a working girl, hence the subsequent children. Then, the landlord had kicked them out and raised the rent.

Lola could easily afford it, she discovered when Dariya took her on a long walk by the house one day. They struck an agreement, and it would last years. The place wasn't large, but as long as Lola could have the largest of the three bedrooms and Dariya understood Lola may have gentleman callers, or at least the appearance of such from time to time, Lola would pay the rent. It had to be kept hidden from the children. That wasn't difficult. Since she didn't need much sleep, she made it a point to not be there when the kids were around. It took another wince-worthy bribe to contract some enterprising Ukrainians to install a highly illegal satellite internet connection. Out of necessity, she taught herself to hack, and how to build the machines she needed. 

Once her full-time guard position and Volkovitch was secured, the security division sent her own on missions often. Their pre-emptive strikes were merciless. As the months and years went by, she did Volovitch's dirty-work in China, Argentina, Fiji, Morocco... though she couldn't, she'd rather have forgot all that. She'd kill anyone who pointed a gun at her, yet she knew that the transgenics holding them were doing so under duress. The operation to steal anything from money to technology suited her better, pricked her conscience less.

Lola, like every other staff member sworn into secrecy, was granted a cubicle large enough for a cot, footlocker, and desk of her own. She and the other guards shared a head and were expected to take their meals on-site when on duty. Lola's badge swipes told security she rarely left the compound. True, but in the middle of any given night, chances were that she was deep within the bowels of the biotech section doing her own recon. Within weeks, she knew every tunnel, wire, ladder, and air duct in the place. The night she removed a ceiling tile with gloved hands and stared straight down into the heart of the temperature-controlled storage unit, Lola gave Renfro the go-ahead.


	4. Chapter 4

Kezmekistan, 2018 - Alexei, Kirill and Lola

With only enough cash to foot the bill for a hotel for a couple of nights, Alexei and Kirill opted to flop at a youth hostel with their fake student visas, and spend money on food, drink, and intel. They'd been told a "Lola" would find them, so they made themselves conspicuous at the Kazakh version of a strip club.

"Two transgenics walk into a bar," quipped Alexei. "Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke."

"You'd better hope not," Kirill shushed his partner but tossed him a slight grin anyway. The two exchanged smug looks when a statuesque blond in turquoise lingerie sat at their table. She didn't offer them drinks or the usual show, instead alighted on Kirill's lap long enough to grind a few times, hips circling in a way that made Alexei's mouth hang open and his eyes glaze slightly. She said nothing to the young man, instead she whispered into his partner's ear to instruct him to meet up at the corner at 5:00AM sharp.

....

That was the last time they saw her so scantily clad. Or, to qualify that, in public. Lola was a consummate professional. As in, professional assassin. Kirill had run into some of them before, and was grateful to be alive to tell about it. Rather than conduct their meetings in a smoky coffee house or somewhere more risqué, she ran them - on foot - up into a mountain valley to put them through their paces..

Along the way, Alexei grumbled in an aside, "Why are we following her? Why's she the boss?"

"Because she's our only fast track in. Otherwise, we might be here for years, trying to get into that place."

Alexei pressed his lips together, and ceded the point. Once in Lola's valley, the trio spent some time with the weapons stash she'd acquired. The Americans had arrived each with a 9mm Glock but only two clips worth of ammo and one hunting knife apiece. Lola assessed their proficiency, deemed them passable, and provided a few odds and ends to bolster their arsenal along with warnings to keep it out of sight.

"We'll meet again in two days," the tall blond woman informed them after several hours. She handed them each a palm-sized notebook with hand-written instructions on how to access Volkovitch's mainframe without detection. "I will get you some sort of job, but you need to create CVs, credentials, and references in the meantime. Alexei, as a gene modification tech, I think, there's an entry-level job. The head of molecular research is the director's wife. Twenty years go, she was his trophy wife. Word on the street is he has other trophies now. I think she will like you."

Alexei raised his eyebrows. "Does that mean I have to sleep with her?" He glanced at Kirill, then smirked at Lola. "What about you, sweetheart? Since we're on that subject, do we need to repay you for your help...?"

Kirill just rolled his eyes but Lola cocked a hip and leveled a cool look at him. "You might. It tends to go with the territory. Right, Kirill? As for me, I can... school you, I suppose, if you think you're not up to par. If you're lacking in technique. Or say, stamina."

"Okay, okay, never mind!" Alexei pouted his already pouty lips.

Lola ignored his display and continued, "For you, Kirill, I've heard that one of the drivers is out of commission. The compound has its own vehicle pool, everything from limousines to snowmobiles to heavy transports. It's either that or janitorial. They can't keep anyone in that line of work. Which would you prefer?"

"Not a difficult choice," Kirill laughed.

Alexei butted in again, addressing his compatriot directly. "You know that's always been more my area."

"And I get to scrub toilets and mop floors? I don't think so!"

"Children, children!" Lola interjected sharply. Yes, it was a reach, for she looked no older than the men, maybe younger in fact. "It's decided. Alexei, you're in charge of finding the serum, removing it from whatever they store it in, and getting it out of the building. I've been all over the infrastructure; I can help with that, but I'll have to have an alibi for when you actually do it. Be aware, you'll have to bypass laser tripwires, maybe other measures." She turned to the quieter but more genial man. "Kirill, you'll need to coordinate the escape with your home network. That could mean stealing a vehicle or concealing yourselves in one already on the way out, I'll leave that to you."

The men nodded, although Alexei still looked doubtful. "Alright. Two nights from now, 9PM." She gave the address of the house she shared with Dariya. "And don't get noticed," she warned. Then, she simply took off back toward Sigginski, a village just outside Olata, at a run.

"Huh." Kirill shrugged. On his previous missions, he'd been part of a group, and it usually involved heavy gunfire and explosives. "Weird."

"Women!" Alexei snorted.

Kirill's eyes gleamed. "Oh, like you'd know! But you want to."

....

As Lola had instructed them, Alexei and Kirill waited till full night and the appointed hour, then tapped lightly on her door. The interior was dimly lit; another woman who she introduced as her roommate looked them over, nodded, and said nothing as Lola ushered them into her room. Her bedroom, Alexei noted. The furnishings were sparse, the walls bare but for a traditional crucifix next to the door; a computer hub took up an entire corner. The neatly-made double bed took most of the room and was the only seating aside from the old wooden ladder-back desk chair. Something about the place gave him the impression she didn't spend much time there.

Lola wasted no time. "Alright, let me see what you've come up with. CVs and resumes, plans, whatever." They worked several hours before she was satisfied. Especially for Alexei, it was important that his references panned out. She could impersonate one past employer, Kirill another, if necessary she could enlist Dariya or other friends in town to give glowing reports as former professors at his fictional alma mater. The problem was not receiving the calls, but making sure that their prospective supervisors would dial out from a specific line or mobile. They could reprogram phones to reroute calls to legitimate, verifiable numbers to their desired phones, but they needed a time frame and of course, definite numbers. It would be up to Alexei to ensure all this, and Lola would do the technical work. But that would have to wait until morning.

"Now what?" Alexei questioned around 1:30AM, stretching his back and shoulders. He deliberately let his shirt ride up in front to reveal the light downy line of hairs between his navel and belt. As per usual, he glanced sideways at Kirill, who frowned slightly. Before they went in for real into deep cover, he needed to break his junior partner of that habit. Best they become strangers, within the Volkovitch enclosure. He was seeing more and more that it was almost a fortress, even more than Manticore.

"Now... we have some fun." Lola smiled, and a youthful exuberance neither of her guests could even imagine possible shone from her. "Come on, let's go out." She hadn't worked at the disco in a long time by then, but she could still shake it. Her former bosses kept them in drinks, and maybe they even got a little intoxicated that night. Not surprising at all that the hours before the dawn held a lot of firsts for all of them, once they returned. Firsts, and maybe lasts, the world was too unsure of a place to ever know.

....

The boys were hired for the jobs Lola had targeted for them; it was almost too easy. Alexei's supervisor-to-be took one look at him and handed him a lab coat and temporary badge. His new-employee tour and orientation were performed by the supervisor as well. Sure enough, Mrs. Volkovitch herself. Short and black-haired with an impressive rack, she ran a tight ship at all times... other than where Alexsei was concerned. He was granted more break-time than the rest of her unit combined. If he emerged from her private office shiny-faced and a little disheveled a few times, well, no one dared say anything. He plied his wide-eyed innocent act, gaining intel on the serum they mean to steal a bit at a time. Lola wondered if something in his pheromones made the woman so easy to lead. 

While Alexei entertained Mrs. V, Kirill spent his days with his greasy hands deep in engine blocks, happy as a clam. Everyone in the motor pool liked him. He lost just enough at their lunchtime card games that they didn't mind when he bluffed them out of half their paychecks. He managed to wrangle a Kawasaki 250cc for himself and a Suzuki for Alexei. Lola ran everywhere, it seemed, and if she needed a ride, she'd climb on with one of them. Most nights, unless two or all of them were working, they went out. It was usually partying, but not always. They snuck into churches and government buildings like nighttime tourists, practicing utter silence and hand signals.

Or, they stayed in. Lola - eventually she let him call her Lolya - showed Alexei his way around what a woman, transgenic or otherwise, needed. Kirill found he preferred to join in at the end, when they had exhausted even their considerable stamina and after he'd been toying with himself that entire time, expending multiple releases first in one, then the other, and occasionally rolling over if Alexei became aroused again. Once even for Lolya and her bright blue double-ended vibrating strap-on. Upon meeting her, he'd considered her what he'd heard described as an "Ice Queen", but that was far from the truth. They all just needed the right situation to express the affection that especially the Manticore breed had always been forbidden.

....

The next hurdle was the laser security system. The infamous antidote was displayed in a glass case as if it were some priceless museum piece, surrounded by a network of laser detectors. If one counted the number of transgenic lives at stake and likely forfeit every day they didn't get it out, it was in fact priceless. Alexei had had some training in eluding and redirecting the laser lines with mirrors and his own pointers. The web of beams was so tight, he'd have to come in from above, through the ceiling, they finally decided after arguing long and hard over the schematics. Lola could get him to the loose tile she'd found on her own, but he would have to get himself in, and back out again, with the loaded syringes intact.

Working in the lab wasn't just for show. Alexei retained everything he learned. As far as he'd ever heard, transgenics did not work at Manticore in any capacity besides soldiering, and whatever areas of specialty they were trained to. The genetics department was strictly off limits. Within a week, though, he could have given Renfro's team lectures. Important to the mission was that the antidote was two-part. First, the bluish-green dose to repair code breaks; then three minutes later, the transparent serum to clear the highly poisonous first portion from the patient's system.

....

The three operatives did more than work, party, and have sex. They talked about things beyond the scope of the job. While Kirill's disposition never seemed to droop, Alexei could get moody. Bad idea, but he did find himself a bit... attached to his Lolya. As the time for the culmination of the mission drew nigh, he kept a eye on her, though she hardly needed his protection - or scrutiny.

Second to the last day, date an time of the snatch-and-grab set in stone. "Will you be around tomorrow night? It's going to be our last night, if we're still alive." Alexei sounded a bit pissy.

"Not till late." Mostly alone for the last decade, Lola wasn't going to change her plans.

"Why? You got a date?" Alexei, or 494 as he'd started to think of himself again raised one eyebrow in a speculative arch.

"No, nothing like that," Lola replied. "I'm throwing a friend a bridal shower."

There was a moment of shocked silence, then 494 laughed uproariously.

"What's funny?"

"Bridal, as in marriage?" snorted 494. "Is she transgenic?" 

"Why?" Lola was starting to get annoyed.

"Trannies don't get married!"

"Of course not," Lola snapped. "Because we're not considered people. Sometimes I wonder if we ever think of ourselves as... machines. Or cogs in the machine. Not even now. But we could." 

494 cut off his giggles, looking angry. Pushing down his collar, he turned enough to show the back of his bare, vulnerable neck, with its harsh black lines and tiny numbers below. "This says otherwise. About 'married' and a lot of other things."

"That's where you're wrong. Things are going to change. Maybe not tomorrow, but in two or three years, you watch. Either we won't be a secret any more and accepted into society as equal to pure humans, or we won't be a secret, and dead. I prefer the first; I work for it every day. What do you suppose this is about, anyway? One piece in a puzzle."  
"Yeah well, good for you. It's back to Manticore and probably Med Ops and Psy Ops for me. I'll be lucky if my dick still works, after they're done going over me with a fine-toothed comb and probed every orifice."

Lola smirked and flicked her eyes at Alexei's crotch. "Do you think it works right now? Might as well, while you still can..."

"It works just fine," Alexei retorted. Apparently so; it was already shifting in her direction.

....

Lowering himself on his harness, nylon rope slipping through the 'beaner, Alexei kept his eyes focused on the lighted showcase below him to prevent vertigo. The rest of the room was in darkness other than blue tube lights which were supposed to kill bacteria - Alexei had never seen positive proof of that. Lola had led him to the staging point high overhead, and then retreated back down the ventilation shaft they'd come through. She would be beeped out of the compound and on her way home - to Dariya's - in plain sight within minutes.

He reached the glass with ease. Cut a circular hole in it with a hand-held cutter, pulled the piece away with the aid of a suction cup. He'd retrieved four of the syringes - a dose and a spare - and was halfway up to safety when he heard the distinct metallic double click of a gun being cocked. Someone, a male voice, yelled, "Halt!" in Russian. Alarms and sirens and lights went off all around him, and Alexei was one sorry excuser for an X-series on the end of a rope without a knot. Then one of the syringes fell. Somehow, it hadn't been secured properly within his inside pocket. Scrambling up, precious seconds were wasted untangling and unhooking himself, and Alexei crawled less than silently away, relying on his hyper-speed to get him the hell out. Sure he'd be surrounded, he ascended two floors before taking the long way around, inside the perimeter walls. A steep staircase took him down again, five stories and through the sub-basement. From there he made his way in through the back of the enormous garage where Kirill had stashed his motorcycle. His harness was still on over his camouflage pants and he had a struggle to get his keys out his front pocket, but it couldn't be helped.

The engine roared to life and he kicked it hard. More sirens came behind him. Now that he was moving, no way was he stopping for anything. His choices to get out of the compound were either running the front gate or through a high chain-link fence topped with razor wire, and Alexei made his decision. As he sped through the gate, the lowered, striped guard-rail bounced against his chest and snapped. His bike wobbled, but he regained his balance and kept going. Just a mile up the road was the rendezvous point where Kirill would meet him, and then they would take a twisting road that led to a hiding spot where a chopper was to air-evac them away. As long as no one shot them en route, the heli showed up, and no one shot them down, they'd be fine.

Alexei killed the headlight and idled nervously, waiting. They'd come after him, with guns. In the open area before the gate, there's been plenty of yelling and shooting going on. It took everything he had not to leave on his own. He might have sat there on the heated machine for two, three minutes, panting from stress; it seemed like centuries.   
He could hear but not see Kirill's rice-burner approaching. Why was he late? Then he became aware of a wet patch on the front of his shirt was. Not dripping, and it wasn't sweat, but it was uncomfortable; his skin tinged there, like a bee sting, or what he imagined getting a tattoo felt like. Trained from childhood to ignore minor distractions, he did exactly that.

Then Kirill arrived, slowing but not stopping, yelling at Alexei to follow. Right, he knew that, GO! ...what was wrong with him? The night was too dark, he couldn't see for shit. Somehow, Alexei managed to stay on his bike and follow Kirill's taillights though the black. There'd never been a time in his life when he'd been blind in the dark; transgenic night vision was excellent. In the end, he couldn't see the glowing red dots either. Forced to stop, his stomach rebelled and he puked to one side. "Kirrriiillll!!" he screamed. What if they left him?! The Kezmeks would chain him up and test him till he went crazy then harvest his organs. The chopper was so close now it was creating hurricane-force winds, and Alexei ducked down over his handlebars. Like white-hot fire, the pain of the skin on his chest overpowered him, and he again as he felt himself topple...


	5. Epilogue

Wyoming, USA - 2019 - 494 and 511 (Biggs)

The last thing 494 remembered before waking up again at Manticore with an IV in his arm and electrodes stuck to his chest was the whop-whop-whop sound of the Huey's blades as 511 shoved him into it. His core temperature, he later was told, had reached 111 degrees Fahrenheit, and would have killed any human and most transgenics. Meant to be injected into a vein, the initial serum, the blue-green stuff, was nearly as poisonous as a topical agent, when it came into contact with skin. In the helicopter, Kirill had searched Alec's person till he found the syringes, one broken and two intact - one aqua, one clear. The second dose of the neutralizing agent was the one Alexei had dropped. Putting two and two together - literally, Kirill had probably at the last available moment, slid the needle of the syringe with the transparent barrel into a raised vein on the inside of Alexei's forearm and pushed the plunger down. Transgenics believed in science, not god; at that moment, Kirill might have swung the other way. Not that he was the reflective type.

Some things, like Psy Ops, just never went the way of the dinosaur. Alexei spent a week there becoming X5-494 again and when he came out, it did take another month before all of his parts were back in working order. What Biggs - the name 511 decided to call himself - had told him was true - 494 wasn't reintegrated back into the main herd, only into the smaller group of X5's who'd been on away missions. Second-hand from his peers, he learned that they'd all been injected shortly after his return with some truly nasty vaccine which produced high fevers and for some, severe flu-like symptoms, but after that not one more of them had dropped in a death spasm. All 494 or 511 could ever make of that was that either there'd been enough still on his skin to get a sample, or they'd duplicated it from a blood sample. 

No one ever thanked him, but then he didn't really expect it. Not while Manticore existed. He'd done his job, succeeded on his mission - sort of - and that was just expected.

Within six months, he and Biggs were sent on another mission to Kezmekhistan. Who better? They'd already broken into and out of Volkovitch. Renfro called them to her office, together this time, to give them their orders. They would have their 'usual' contact there, she told them in that "you're four years old and retarded" way of hers. One Lola Zharova. Maybe they remembered her? The two young men exchanged a look behind her back. Lola. Sometimes things really did turn out alright.

 

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again to ladyarcherfan3 for the gorgeous banner and story inspiration for my first reverse bang ever.


End file.
